Many Happy Returns
by SylvieT
Summary: This short story is basically a rewrite of 13.15 Forget Me Not's opening scene at the restaurant, but with a happy twist. Sara gets her birthday wish, and then some. Happy GSR.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm still in denial, so I've come up with this…

This story is basically a rewrite of 13.15 _Forget Me Not_'s opening scene at the restaurant. What Sara told Nick and Greg in the end scene of the episode got me thinking. If Sara could have had her birthday wish, and we all know what she wished for – or do we? – what would have happened? In this respect, I gave a new meaning to their phone conversation at the end of 13.11 _Dead_ _Air_. I don't think you'll mind.

A/N 2: Jean, this one's for you. I hope you enjoy. And let me tell you again: GSR is NOT dead even if she cheated on him and took the ring off. :-(

Some dialogue gratefully borrowed from 13.15 _Forget_ _Me_ _Not_, and sadly isn't mine.

* * *

Many Happy Returns.

* * *

_And as I sat there alone in the restaurant…I honestly expected him_ _to show up._

* * *

The waiter came and cleared her plate and cutlery. Catching her eye he smiled and placed the dessert menu in front of her. "Will you have dessert, Madam?"

Sara glanced at the menu, hesitating, but then declined with a shake of her head. When Grissom had called a few weeks ago to say that he was sorry but that he wouldn't be able to come home for her birthday as planned she'd felt crushing disappointment. She was all for cancelling, or postponing, but he didn't want her to and made her promise to go ahead with what they'd arranged.

He couldn't be with her in body, he'd argued, but he'd be there in mind and heart. And he was. He had said he was sorry, and she believed him. But it still hurt, and she'd been a little more distant on the phone since, their short conversations more fraught than usual. The day at the spa, the expensive meal and the night in the posh hotel she could stomach alone, but eating birthday cake, alone, was more than she could bear. She picked up her glass and raising it at the waiter flashed an uneasy smile.

"I'll just finish my wine. Thank you."

The waiter nodded at her, then withdrew the menu and went on his way, once again leaving her to her musings. She took a sip of the wine and scanned her eyes over her surroundings, taking in the balloons of the birthday party in full swing beyond, the chattering and laughing voices all around and the soft clinking of glasses and scraping of cutlery against plates as guests enjoyed the delectable food. The band returned from their break, once again taking up position on the small stage in the corner of the room.

She put her glass down. Her right hand automatically moved to her left hand, her fingers mindlessly toying with the band on her ring finger. She was beginning to feel nervous now, uncomfortable in her new dress and heels that were too tight, sitting at her table for one. She was about to push her chair back and make a quick exit when the waiter returned, placing a chocolate cake with raspberries on top in front of her. The tall, single burning candle in the centre made her heart quicken with anticipation.

"I―I took a total shot in the dark," he said a little tentatively. She brought her eyes up to him and searched his face. "Please, tell me I'm right."

Her expression softened with pleasure. "Hum, yeah actually. You are."

He acknowledged her words with a soft nod, then glanced down at the cake. Mischief twitched at his lips. "Well, in that case, happy birthday."

He was playing a game with her, a flirtatious, dating game, and she was all for it. She did her best to school her features in a neutral expression, but didn't manage to hide her growing smile. "How did you know?"

His shoulder lifted in an isn't-it-obvious?-I-followed-the-evidence kind of way. "You seem to be celebrating and I noticed you keep watching that party over there."

"God, it's that obvious, huh?" She picked up one of the two forks the waiter had placed next to the cake, and handed it to him. "Two forks."

"Of course," he said taking the fork from her and sitting down. "Can't eat birthday cake alone."

She smiled, and he smiled back and they stared at each other for a moment before she said, "All right, then. Well, I guess I should blow out the candle."

He winked. "Unless you want me to sing Happy Birthday."

Her hand lifted, cutting his offer short. "No. No, please." She held his gaze as she thought that her birthday wish had already come true, then blew out the candle.

"I hope your wish comes true."

"Thank you."

She removed the candle from the cake and set it on the side. He turned round in his chair, motioning to a passing waiter, while she sliced her fork through the moist cake. "Excuse me?" he called. "Can we grab another bottle and an extra glass?" He turned back toward her, a knowing smirk forming as he caught her with the forkful of cake halfway to her mouth. "Unless the party is over."

"No," she replied too quickly, her mouth full. She lifted her hand, covering her mouth, and swallowed. "I'm not driving. It's a present to myself; a day at the spa, a room at the hotel, dinner."

"Why not?" he asked, the smile not leaving his lips. "Treat yourself, right? You deserve it."

Grissom put the dessert fork down, then slid his hand on the table toward hers a little hesitantly. Her eyes lowered to it and she smiled, before looking up again as she reached over to take it. Their little game was over. There was caution in his gaze now as he watched her, still unsure whether his turning up out of the blue had been the right thing to do. How could he think it wouldn't be?

The band began to play, a slowed-down version of a pop tune she recognised but couldn't name. Her earlier discomfort had all but vanished, as had all her anxieties of the past few weeks. Time stood still for them in that moment as they lost themselves in each other's eyes. Neither spoke, and yet so much was said through the silence.

The waiter returned with a bottle of wine and a glass for Grissom, breaking the moment. He made to pour him a glass, but Grissom lifted his hand to stop him before thanking him with a nod. Gently pulling his hand out of hers, he picked up the bottle and briefly studied the label before pouring himself a glass. Then he slowly picked up his glass, lifting it up toward her, and smiled. Their surroundings once again faded in the background, and it was just the two of them.

"Happy birthday, Sara," he said solemnly, soft eyes boring into hers.

She raised her glass to his and they clinked. Eyes locked across the table, they took a sip of the beverage. Afterwards, he swapped his glass for the fork and reached across, stabbing a big chunk off the cake and bringing it to his mouth. "Mmm," he said in surprise, "This is good cake."

She took another sip of her wine and studied him as he ate. Feeling her gaze on him, he looked up and stopped chewing. When their eyes met, time stood still for them again as they gazed at each other in the dim lighting. Slowly he finished his mouthful, and swallowed, hard, as though the cake had gotten stuck in his throat. His tongue darted out of his mouth, licking at its corner, at his bottom lip, before he wiped his hand over the same spot. Again, he swallowed and gave her a shy, self-conscious smile.

"You're not eating?" he asked tentatively.

Sara shook herself out of her trance. Finally breaking eye contact, she put her glass down and used her fork to cut off another piece for herself. He reached across and did the same. She brought the fork to her lips and took a moment to appreciate how moist and tasty the cake was. And how familiar too. Her gaze narrowed as she thought she'd tasted that cake once before, then her face lit up as it came to her when. How could she have forgotten? How could she not have remembered the birthday cake he'd tried to pass as his own three years ago? She burst out laughing.

"You remember," he stated in a chuckle, and quickly finished chewing. "I'm surprised it still looks as good and whole as when I bought it. I was worried they wouldn't allow it me on the plane, and I couldn't stow it in the hold and risk it being mush when we landed."

She felt stunned at this uncharacteristic forethought. A brow lifted. "Well, French luggage handlers aren't the most careful," she remarked in a teasing tone.

His smile widened with pleasure. "I had the flight attendant keep it in their fridge. When I explained, well…" He let his words trail with a lift of his shoulder.

"I can imagine," she laughed, before averting her gaze as tears of happiness unexpectedly filled her eyes. "Thank you," she said, her voice chocked with emotion, and looked up, "For being here and making this day special."

His returning smile was as loving as it was apologetic. He was going to speak when he thought better of it. His eyes flicked up to the top of her head and then back to her face. "You did your hair up," he remarked softly, "Just the way I like it."

He didn't need to elaborate for her to get the subtext, the fact that he knew that secretly she'd been hoping he would be there. Her smile faded a little as her shoulder lifted. At a loss as to how to go on from there, she lowered her gaze to the cake, cutting off another morsel she brought to her lips and ate, keeping silent.

She knew from the French clothes he was wearing – cream dress pants, crisp, white shirt open at the collar under a tailored navy jacket she'd helped him buy and he sometimes wore to professional cocktail parties and luncheons at the Sorbonne – that he had come straight from the airport. If not, he would have had dinner with her.

"You look lovely," he said emphatically, putting his fork down and reaching across to touch her cheek.

Instinctively she found herself leaning into his caress. "What happened?" she queried, glancing up, aiming for a casual tone.

He let out a long breath, and dropped his hand. Then he let out a chuckle, but it sounded hollow to her as though he wished he had a better excuse. "The students are on strike," he said, "Can you believe it? Sit-ins, demonstrations…the whole hog. They're refusing to attend lectures and tutorials until the government backs down on the latest reforms. Nothing unusual apparently, it happens with every new government, or so I'm told." He flashed her a brief smile. "Only in France, huh?" His expression darkened, and he shrugged. "So I'm here, playing hooky."

"When do you have to be back?"

"I don't know. I got myself an open return. A few days at the most. Until Sunday anyway."

Her eyes lowered and she nodded. He picked up her hand. "We need to talk," she said, looking up sharply.

Grissom pinched his bottom lip. "Yeah, we do."

"I'm―"

His hand lifted from hers on the table to her mouth, quieting her. "But not here. Not now," he said in a soft, yet commanding tone, "Not tonight."

He brushed against her lips with the soft pads of his fingers and she sucked in a breath, her mouth opening a fraction as she did so. Her heartbeat quickened with each stroke and brush, her body's instinctive and immediate response.

"Tonight's special," he went on in a whisper, unaware of the turmoil of sensations his lightest touch created inside her, the smouldering fire slowly rekindling deep in the pit of her stomach. "Tonight we're celebrating your birthday. Let's just…suspend everything for a few hours, forget our troubles and just…" His shoulder lifted. A half-smile formed, playing round the edges of his mouth, "Enjoy each other's company."

Sara's face softened with a smile. "I can do that," she murmured, pressing her lips to his fingers.

"Good," he smiled, and lowered his hand. He glanced to a point beyond her shoulder. "Let's dance," he suggested brightly, refocusing on her. "I want to dance with you."

Sara eyed him with disbelief for a moment, thinking that she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had instigated a dance, then slowly nodded her head. He stood up, and taking the hand he was offering she followed him to the dance floor. They never noticed the man watching them intently.

Few couples were dancing, but it didn't matter as she only had eyes for him, and he for her. She wrapped her left hand around him and rested her head on his shoulder, and as he held her to him, his left hand clasping her right one tightly between them while he kept his other hand on her left shoulder, they moved as one in their small corner of dance floor in gentle circles.

She closed her eyes as his lips grazed her temple and surrendered herself completely to his lead and to the feeling of wellbeing that enveloped her. She kept her eyes closed, and revelled in the feel of him, of his strength, his confidence and familiarity, the slight swaying and twirling motion and feather light stroking of his thumb on the bare skin of her shoulder wrecking havoc with her senses. For a moment she stopped thinking, and all that mattered was the here and now. Them. Tomorrow could wait.

The melody stopped all too soon, but they remained in each other's arms and continued swaying to some silent music, a soundless rhythm only they could follow. Around them, couples left the dance floor, and as a new tune began, a little more up-tempo this time, new couples join them. And still they danced, to their own slow pace. After a while, Sara reopened her eyes and pulled back from his shoulder, seeking his gaze. She saw love there, and passion, but also a lingering sadness she knew she mirrored.

"Don't think of tomorrow," she whispered, leaning in to his ear, the hot breaths reflected off his skin back on to her as she spoke sending shivers down her spine. "Just think of the here and now."

He stopped dancing suddenly. She watched as he pulled back from her and searched her face before dropping the hand holding her shoulder. His breaths came in small gasps as he stared at her. His eyes burned with an intensity she'd seldom seen. She swallowed. Lifting his hand to her face, he pushed a tendril of hair that had worked its way loose behind her ear and leaned in for a kiss. His lips were soft and warm, tasting of chocolate, of home, and of promise, and she welcomed their return.

Unbeknown to them, the man now stood at the edge of the room, carefully following their every move with a nasty scowl on his face and silently reeling at the thought that his wicked plans had be foiled by this unexpected turn of events.

Grissom ended the kiss and Sara's hand crept up to his face, holding him close as she traced her fingers over the slopes and planes of his face, beardless and looking older than the last time she'd seen him. "I've kept the room," she said gravely.

His eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "I know."

"Then what are you waiting for?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Definitely M, so please, read responsibly. I fear that I went a little overboard here, but I always find it hard gauging these things. I hope you'll enjoy. Sorry if you don't. But leave a review anyway!

And thank you for reading, as always.

* * *

Without a word or a backward glance and hand in hand, they made their way to the bank of elevators. Grissom jabbed his finger on the call button while Sara clung to his shoulder. The doors of the awaiting cab opened immediately and they stepped in. Without prompting, he pressed on twelve. As soon as the doors shut Grissom tugged at Sara's hand, reeling her to him. He took a moment to watch her, truly watch her, but before he could make another move the doors pinged, opening on the twelfth floor.

"Room 1215, down toward the end," Sara said, and taking a left as they exited Grissom tightened his hold on her hand, "near the stairs."

Grissom nodded as they rushed along, then felt his pants pockets with his free hand and took out a key card. "I know," he said, with a half-smile. "I dropped my bags off…before and freshened up a little. You don't mind, do you?"

Sara shook her head in reply. "Well, the booking was for Mr _and_ Mrs."

His features softening with love he stopped dead in his tracks and Sara hesitantly followed suit. She searched his face, wondering at his hesitation. "Before," he said in a quiet whisper, "I said that you looked lovely." He paused, and briefly scanned his eyes up and down the deserted corridor. Then he met her enquiring gaze and gave her a soft smile. "That's not even close to the truth." He raised their entwined hands to his lips, and kissed Sara's. "I love you."

Sara could only stare back at him with incredulity. Before she could reply, a door opened at the other end of the corridor and automatically she turned toward it. She felt her hand being tugged toward their room, and without wasting any time Grissom let them in. The wall lights were on, casting the room in soft shadows. His travel bag lay open on the floor at the foot of the bed, dirty clothes spilling out of it, leisure shoes discarded alongside.

Grissom locked the door, then turned toward her. There would be no more games played tonight. She closed her eyes as framing her face with his hands he leaned toward her, waiting for the moment when his lips would brush against hers. They didn't. She could feel them hovering tantalisingly close, a breath away and yet so far. When her eyes reopened, surprised and enquiring, she found him watching her with so much emotion in his eyes that the breath caught in her throat.

His eyes held hers while he sank to his knees, his hands gliding to her hips, stroking over the gossamer material of her dress, feeling and teasing. He took in a breath and his eyes closing buried his face in her midriff. His hands slid to her back and down to her bottom, cupping her cheeks. Instinctively, her hands linked behind his head, holding him to her, threading through his hair.

She closed her eyes and swallowed, swaying a little at the rush of sensations coursing through her. His hands slipped under her dress, then slid upward her stocking legs, stopping at the suspender belt. She felt his gasp against her stomach and when she opened her eyes he was watching her, his lips quirked into a smile of disbelief.

A slow grin spread across her face, and she waggled a brow at him. "Well," she said, "It is _my_ birthday." But they both knew she'd gone to the trouble of wearing them for his benefit.

His eyes narrowed at her teasing. "And what if I hadn't come to take them off?" he queried, slowly trailing his fingers up her inner thigh all the way to her panties.

His touch sent a prickle of delicious sensation tingling between her legs**. **Her eyes drifted shut as she took in and then released a deep breath at the wave of desire, of arousal that flooded her and made her weak at the knees. A low moan escaped her parted lips. Her chest was heaving as he continued his ministrations on her other leg, never venturing further than her groin.

"Then I would have had to take them off myself," she managed in a fraught gasp.

He paused, and she reopened her eyes, and they gazed at each other, openly expressing how much they loved and desired one another. Grissom pushed to his feet, then walked behind her. She felt his fingers skim over the bare flesh of her arm and shoulders before settling on the zipper at the back. Slowly, he pulled it down, then slid the dress off her shoulders and turned her around so she faced him.

Sara let the dress fall to the ground, then stepped out of it, standing in her heels, sheer stockings, black lace suspenders, panties and bra. She saw his pupils widen at the sight, the breath catching in his chest as he trailed his gaze over every freckle, every curve and dip of her body, drinking her in. When he brought his darkened eyes back to hers his breaths were coming in small pants, his desire for her evident. She didn't need words to know he found her beautiful, alluring and exciting, his body's response proof enough. She smiled then, and reached both hands down to her left shoe to undo the ankle buckle.

"No," he called in a breathless murmur, and gulped when she glanced up at him in surprise. "Keep them on. Please."

He reached out a hand to her, and she straightened up, taking the proffered hand and closing the distance to him. His hands moved to her waist while his lips found the tender spot on her throat. Her eyes drifted shut at the sudden surge of arousal. Her insides tightened, her muscles contracting in little involuntary spasms. A moan escaping, she leaned her head back, then used both hands to push his jacket off his shoulders, carelessly dropping it to the floor before reaching for the buckle of his belt. His eyes drifted shut, and he let out a gasp, a sigh of relief she echoed.

Her eyes never left his face as she undid the button of his pants and then slowly lowered the zipper, her fingers not-so-innocently brushing against his taut self. She made quick work of the rest of his clothing until he stood, naked and hard in front of her. She trailed her hands over his chest and down to his stomach, over his hips, reaching behind and teasing herself tantalisingly near.

Then, just as he had done with her moments before, she knelt down before him, her face inches from him while her hands stroked their way back over his hips, his navel and coming to rest over his twitching erection. She brought her mouth to it and felt it twitch again and harden as she teased her lips over it. She felt him shift, mumbling something under his breath she didn't get. His hands flew to her head, gently pulling her off him and then back up to her feet.

His eyes were closed and he was breathing hard. She could tell how much he wanted her to continue, how easy it would be for her to make him come, how hard it was for him to ask her to stop. His eyes reopened, soft and apologetic that he wasn't younger, stronger.

"It's your birthday," he said in a hoarse voice, framing her face with his hands, "Not mine. Let me show you. Let me show you how much I've missed you, how much I love you."

His eyes lowered to her chest, as did his hands reaching behind her to unfasten her bra. Eyes steadfast on her face, he pushed the straps down off her shoulders, and Sara wriggled her arms out, letting the bra fall to the floor. He let his gaze travel over her face and neck, over her heaving bosom for a moment without touching her. His eyes, a gentle yet ardent caress on her skin, might as well have been hands and fingers, for they had the same burning effect. Impatient, she lifted a hand toward him, wanting, needing for him to touch her as much as she needed to touch and feel him, and not just with her eyes as he was quite content to do.

He took a step back, keeping just out of reach. "Let _me_ show you," he said again.

She opened her mouth to argue that it worked both ways, but the words were snatched out of her when he cupped one hand to her naked breast before bringing his mouth to it, while his other hand stroked over her hip and stomach and down toward the waistband of her panties. Sara let out a gasp of surprise, of relief that finally he was acting upon his feelings. Slowly, he licked and nipped and sucked, teasing one pert, ultra-sensitive nipple first, and then the other while his hand slipped under her panties.

A pulse hammering at her throat, she threw her head back. Her hands crept up to his shoulders and she held him there, pressing herself to him, grinding and writhing herself against his hands, his face, his mouth, wanting, needing, craving more from him than what he was giving her. Gently, he pushed her back and she took a few unsteady steps backwards until she hit the bed, falling back on it. She was about to pull him down with her when he resisted, staying upright.

Under his pressure she laid down fully, her legs instinctively parting to make way for his body. He just stood there, watching, feasting his eyes on her beauty while she could only stare back, powerless to touch and satiate her need. His hands moved to her legs, slowly parting them wider. Still watching her, he kneeled down between them and grazed his fingertips up her inner thighs. Sara's eyes closed, her arms lifted above her head as her body sank into the plush mattress and she concentrating her all senses on finding pleasure from his ministrations.

He unclipped her left suspender before slowly rolling the stocking down her leg all the way to the ankle while trailing his lips in its wake, burning a path on her skin that melted Sara to her core. His fingers fumbled at her left ankle and the shoe came off, quickly followed by the stocking. Sara was ready to burst, the gasps and moans escaping her open mouth growing in intensity. When he moved to her other leg, unhurriedly repeating the process, she opened bleary eyes and stretched up to watch him, finding it an incredible turn on. If she couldn't touch him, then she'd touch herself.

Her hand moved to her panties, slipping under as watching him mercilessly toy with her she tried to ease some of her own yearning. Even before her second shoe had come off she'd pulled her panties down to her ankles and freed one leg. She let out a low moan, a groan, a pleading whisper for him to stop and come to her, fill her. She needed him, wanted him now. From between her legs, he looked up to her, his heart beating in his mouth, and she read the dilemma in his eyes: he wanted to take his time with her, pleasure her, _show_ her. She was ready for the next stage.

"Gil, please," she pleaded again, "It's been too long."

He joined her on the bed. He was heavy and full between her legs and she loved that about him. With one hand he lifted her knee, then slid his fingers inside her, stroking her, brushing them over her the way he knew she favoured, while his free hand kneaded her breast, and his mouth covered hers. Her arms were once again raised above her head, surrendering herself to him and his mercy, allowing him full access to her body. That trust she'd put in him that very first time they'd made love had never been broken or taken advantage of, and she knew never would be.

With every stroke, she could feel the first waves of her orgasm taking a hold of her already. She knew she wouldn't take long, and she also knew she didn't want to come alone when he was with her. She lifted her hips, an invitation he immediately understood, and he took out his fingers. His erection fitted so much better anyway, she thought in a rush of relief as he slid inside her. Gazes locked, he picked up his pace and they moved in perfect sync, until their moans and groans mixed, making one, reaching the perfect crescendo at the same time.

Afterwards, they lay in each other's arm in the dim light, breathless, sated and silent for a long moment until Grissom's stomach made its presence known. He laughed, and she pushed up on an elbow, a question forming in her eyes. "I wish I'd landed early enough to have dinner with you," he said in reply, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead. "And you know what inflight food is like."

"We could always order room service."

A brow lifted. "At this time of night?"

She reached over to the bedside table for the menu and opened it so they could both peruse it. "Club sandwich?" she asked eventually.

He pursed his mouth at her. "I guess so."

She reached for the phone, dialled out for reception and ordered the Club sandwich. Before she could finish the conversation, Grissom motioned for her to pass him the phone and, when she did, turned away from her to order a bottle of champagne.

"It's not my birthday anymore," she pointed out in a giggle when he'd hung up.

He turned on his side toward her and propped his head on his hand. "If I were a younger man, Sara," he said, staring at her intently, "I would make love to you again. Right now."

Her lips twitched with a smile of pleasure. "I can wait till morning," she replied, and stretched out catlike on the bed beside him.

Smiling, he reached a lazy hand to her naked breast and brushed his fingers over it. Immediately her nipple hardened, and as the lingering quivers and quakes of her orgasm got reawakened she let out a low moan of desire. "Are you sure?" he queried lightly, as she trembled under his hand.

Sara never answered the question. Not with words anyway. She shifted on the bed, turning her face toward him, opening her body to him and allowing the gentle touch of his hands and lips to once again cause havoc with her senses. Her orgasm built fast and hard, starting high in her stomach and rolling all the way down, pulsing and pulsing through her until she thought she would burst.

It rendered her speechless, and so utterly useless that when the discreet knock on the door heralding the arrival of their food was heard, she didn't even think to cover herself. She just basked in the afterglow. Grissom slipped out of bed and while he was hurriedly throwing on clothes instructed room service to leave the tray by the door.

The cork was popped on the champagne bottle; flutes were filled. Sara shuffled up into a sitting position before taking the proffered glass. They toasted her birthday again, and Grissom ate his impromptu picnic in bed while they sipped at the expensive champagne. Life felt so good at that moment that she didn't allow herself to think of the future, of the heartache when he would once again leave in a few days' time.

Enjoy the here and now, she'd told him, and she was doing just that.

"Let's take a bath," he said out of the blue when he'd finished eating.

She raised a startled gaze toward him. "What?"

His face was soft, matter-of-fact. "A bath. Please, humour me. I want to take a bath with you. It's been so long since we've done that. And we did book a room with a double bath."

She laughed. "You were against it. You said it was…decadent."

His shoulder lifted. "All the more reasons to use it then."

It was only in the small hours of the night, when the first rays of sunlight were beginning to filter through the curtains, that they turned off the lights, drifting off in each other's arms into a peaceful, but much-needed sleep. Sara didn't think she'd ever felt as content as she did then. Her birthday wish had well and truly come true, and then some.

Morning noises outside the room woke them up, all too soon, and it was time to check out. They got ready, then Grissom went to settle their bill while Sara finished packing her case before joining him downstairs. The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor. A frown formed on Sara's face on seeing Greg waiting there in his CSI vest, his silver field case in hand. Evidently, unlike her, he wasn't there for pleasure.

"Sara?" he called with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

She slipped her sunglasses off, then stepped out of the elevator, pulling her carryon along. "Checking out."

"You spent the night," he stated with interest.

"Very good, Greg," she remarked dryly, a wide smile dancing on her lips as she stepped past him.

Frowning, he turned toward her. "Oh, I remember now," he said musingly. "Yesterday was your birthday. So you went ahead with your plans then."

"It would appear so," she replied, still grinning widely and wondering if one could tell just by looking at you if you'd had three orgasms, including one in water.

"Too bad Grissom couldn't make it."

"Too bad," she concurred, slipping her sunglasses back on, on the off chance that he could indeed tell.

Greg's eyes widened just as she felt an arm drape around her shoulders. "Oh, I made it all right," Grissom said.

A grin broke across the young CSI's face. "But I thought," he said, his eyes flicking between the two with puzzlement.

"Well, you thought wrong," Grissom quipped in good-humour, stealing a look at his wife and winking. "Wouldn't be the first time, and certainly won't be the last." He reached over, extending his hand at Greg, and after a double take of surprise from the younger man they shook hands.

Sara's lips pinched, badly hiding her smile. "So why are you here?" she asked.

Greg gave a shrug. "We have a body up on 18. Homicide."

"I hope you won't mind," Sara said, her smile returning as she glanced at her husband, "If I don't offer to come up with you."

Greg glanced from Sara to Grissom and then back to Sara again, and gave her a roguish smile that told her in no uncertain terms that yes, he could tell just by looking at her she'd had great sex and that if he were her he too would choose Grissom over a crime scene any day of the week. Then he gave his head a shake, as though trying to refocus himself on the task in hand.

"I don't suppose either of you saw or heard anything, did you?" he asked.

Sara and Grissom looked at each other and shared complicit smiles. Then they turned back toward Greg and shook their heads. "Nope," Grissom said with confidence, "we didn't hear or see anything." There was a slight pause before he added, "Pertinent to the case anyway."

Greg's grin was knowing. "All right," he said, laughter in his voice as he reached past them to call the elevator, "I get the drift." He glanced at them over his shoulder. "I bid you both a very good day."

"Thanks Greg," Sara said, laughing. "You have a good one too."

The elevator doors opened, and muttering something under his breath Greg stepped inside the cab. They watched as head shaking, he turned round and pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. When the doors began to slide shut, Sara lifted her hand in a friendly wave, which the young CSI returned.

"Come on," Grissom said, steering her toward the exit, "let's go home, and back to bed. I'm tired."

* * *

The end.


End file.
